


The Last Will and Testament of Caleb Widogast

by warlockadam



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, But also Liam O'Brien has things to say to his friends?, Caleb Widogast has things to say to his friends, Eventual Fluff, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pining, Romance, Self-Doubt, Violence, as per usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warlockadam/pseuds/warlockadam
Summary: Something goes wrong in his last battle, and Caleb Widogast is gone. But Caleb and Caduceus have planned ahead, and so each member of the Mighty Nein must grieve in their own way.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 48
Kudos: 293





	1. "Weg"

In the end, it takes less than six seconds.

Fjord and Yasha are busy with Eadwulf, a host of summoned monsters and scythe swings keeping them at bay. At one point Fjord freezes up, forced paralysis creeping over his limbs, and Yasha’s having to work double to parry the angled blows–then Caduceus is kneeling there, laying a hand on Fjord’s shoulder, and Melora’s grace rushes through him and Fjord’s up and he’s back in the fray.

Veth and Beau have Astrid, ducking and weaving from cover to cover through a swarm of crackling evocations. Every so often an icicle shatters on the stones, and one of the Nein turns, just to make sure—but they needn’t worry, Veth is a shadow, invisible and impossible, and Beau is ease itself, speed and force and style together in a blue blur of motion. It’d be mesmerizing if it weren’t so terrifying.

Caleb and Trent are locked in tandem, counterspell after counterspell, magical power arcing out in random directions only to be swallowed up and banished to nothingness. They’re matched in strength but Trent is older, his reserves are deeper, and Caleb’s running out of juice, he’s not sure how much longer he can hold out but he’ll be damned if he backs down now, they’re so _close_ —

And it doesn’t matter because Jester is there behind Trent, appearing out of thin air, holding the one thing he doesn’t have time to counter. A razor-sharp lollipop the size of Yasha’s greatsword cleaves into Trent’s back, sending him off-balance, and Caleb’s _fireball_ finally connects, splashing across his front and sending him to the ground. Trent makes to rise but Jester’s _spiritual weapon_ arcs down to rest against his neck, and he stiffens.

It’s over. They’ve won. Trent is down and they’ve won. A single twitch will end him, but Jester waits, inclining her head as if to give Caleb the honors. Caleb looks at her and his heart is full and he can do nothing but take a few stumbling steps. He needs to thank her. He needs to say a lot of things.

Astrid screams out across the battlefield, and a green ray fires from an outstretched fingertip. The disintegrate spell careens towards the collapsed figure, and Caleb sees the delight in his eyes, is stunned that Trent really did mean what he said, that _nothing would make me prouder_ —

Master Trent Ikithon weaves his fingers together, in what will be his final act of treachery, and the spell reflects. The ray rebounds towards the nearest target. In the end, it takes less than six seconds.

The ghost of the smile of a purple tiefling, spattered with blood, the cry of a raven sounding in the distance, and Caleb Widogast is gone.


	2. "Leer"

The letter’s in a ball on the floor, and he can’t stop pacing. He’s crossed the length of the room a dozen times now, and with each rotation his scowl deepens. Dwueth’var protrudes upward from its impromptu sheath, lodged violently in a wooden bedpost, forgotten.

_Fjord,_

_If you are reading this letter, I am sorry. It means—well, you are aware what it means._

_I can only assume that you will blame yourself for whatever happened, and I must insist that you absolve yourself of that responsibility. Small comfort from beyond the grave, I am sure, but it is necessary. You are better than you give yourself credit for. I should know; I am something of an expert on the subject._

_Something I have long believed, ever since our third day traveling as a group, is that you are the bravest man I know. No doubt you will dispute this by claiming that there are many times you have been afraid, have felt lost in the face of danger. This is irrelevant. You have faced your fear and fought on in every single battle, led us to victory over and over again even after our carefully laid schemes went up in smoke. More than that, you were handed power—control, dominance, a chance to take charge of your life in a way you had always dreamed of—and you gave it up. You did so with no guarantees, no promises, gave it up simply because you were unwilling to sacrifice your newfound family and your identity on the altar of ambition._

_You did not know who you would become, and yet still you turned away from all you had. I can think of nothing more courageous than that._

_There are many adventures to come, of course, and I wish you good fortune on them. To that end I leave you my spellbook, which contains close to every incantation I was able to compile during our travels. I know you are not one for settling down, but the mansion within is yours, as it is the Nein’s. Some of the magic may be beyond your abilities at first, but with time and practice (and perhaps with Veth’s assistance) I am confident you will master it all. I can think of no better candidate to wield the knowledge and power I have accumulated, as I can say with absolute certainty that you will use it for the better._

_Know that I am proud to call you my Captain._

_Bis zum ende,_

_—Caleb Widogast_

He had stared, crumpled the letter, thrown it against the wall and slammed the Star Razor down into the furniture. Now he paces, relentless, back and forth from corner to corner, brooding, wondering, mourning.

Outside Nicodranas is bustling, unfazed and unaware.

It was certainly easy for Caleb to absolve him of responsibility. Easy for Caleb to attempt to comfort him, to claim that he was better, to reassure him that there was nothing he could have done. To leave him his life’s work. Easy for Caleb, who had never lived inside his head and seen the serpent of fear that slithered there, to call him brave.

He knows the truth. He could have been faster, stronger, smarter. He could have made a better plan, a plan that would have lasted beyond the first moments of combat and kept them all alive. He could have remembered that Astrid did not like to lose. He could have taken the ray himself. That was what heroes did, yes, in all the stories; they sacrificed themselves for the people they called their friends.

Caleb was wrong to have believed in him. Caleb was wrong, and he had paid the price. Just like his crew, and the rest of the Nein, and Mollymauk, and Vandren, and even Uko’toa. Just one more in a long list of failures.

Perhaps it was time for the Wildmother to admit that she had picked the wrong champion.

Reflexively he reaches out with his magic, grasping for that small divine spark within and without, seeking answers. He rarely prays—some paladin he’s turned out to be—but right now he needs to hear her voice. He needs guidance. He needs someone to tell him how to fix everything.

The only sounds are the distant echo of gulls, and the ebb and flow of waves crashing against the shore.

He slumps back against the bedframe, sword resting nearby. He’s grateful there’s no mirror in the room; he knows that he probably looks just as empty as he feels.

For the hundredth time in his life, Fjord Stone has no idea what he’s supposed to do.


	3. "Ruhen"

He knows exactly what he’s supposed to do. For him it’s a day like any other, a day of remembrance and grieving and last rites and jubilant celebration. It’s a day for letting go. He bows his head and says the words, and the exterior of the Lighthouse seems almost to glow with Her approval. For a moment the light at its peak looks like a globe of amber.

Caleb would have liked this spot, he thinks, placidly.

He crosses to the edge of the cliff, sea grasses and tufts of weeds mingling under his feet, and he picks a spot overlooking the waters beyond. There he kneels, trusting his eyesight and his goddess to ease his path to the ground. It’s not uncomfortable. The breeze ruffles his mane, and he gives a mild snort. Silently he thanks the Wildmother for her forethought in tending the garden here.

He retrieves the letter, waiting for him beneath the plates of his armor, and he begins to read.

_Caduceus,_

_Thank you for agreeing to hold these letters. I hope that I am over-preparing, that you will never need to distribute them…but if the worst should transpire, I would not wish my final thoughts for the Nein to be lost. They are everything to me, and they deserve whatever small comforts I can provide. I am not much for religion or the gods, but I have the utmost faith in your ability to keep them safe._

_I must confess that there were times I did not understand you, times I felt that your trusting nature and sense of morality were shortsighted and would prove to be our end. I would like you to know that I was a fool. You are wise beyond your years, and patient in all aspects, and your compassion shamed me as it uplifted me. You are larger than life, in every way, and I fear that sometimes we do not give you credit for all the credit you have given us._

_When we prayed for a miracle, you were there. We were mourning a dear friend, and you were there, ready with a warm cup of tea and a word of wisdom for a band of struggling strangers. More than that, you were ready to stand alongside us and help save those we had lost. Indeed, I am certain that none of us would be here without you. The Mighty Nein—and I—owe you a debt of gratitude that can never truly be repaid._

_Bearing this in mind, I have one last request to impose upon you. We had discussed previously that I be interred in your graveyard, to someday have the privilege of joining your family legacy. If you would (and I do not know how difficult this will be), please see to it that my parents—Una and Leofric Ermendrud—have that same privilege. My magic could not locate their remains; they may be languishing within the clutches of Scourgers, buried in an unmarked plot of land, or simply left there, still, beneath the bones of that burned-down house in Blumenthal. Perhaps the Wildmother will succeed where I could not._

_Wherever they are, they deserve better than what I have done to them. They deserve to rest._

_I can do nothing more than offer you my thanks, for all that you have done. You are a great man, Caduceus Clay. I know that one day, far in the future, they will line up in the streets to mourn you when you are gone._

_Respektvol,_

_—Caleb Widogast_

He frowns. He is not disappointed, not in the slightest. He has never _expected_ anything from the rest of the Nein, never felt that they owed him or that they had asked too much of him, and so he is not bothered by Caleb’s last request. And he is touched by the praise—not because he believes it is true but because it is remarkable, truly remarkable that Caleb (of all people) was able to put such emotions to words. He knows how difficult that must have been for him, and he is grateful.

No, Caduceus Clay realizes that for the first time in as many funerals, he carries a twinge of regret. Of doubt, of a desire for things to have turned out differently.

He turns over the concern in his mind, pondering it, then shrugs. He will trust in Her judgment as he always has. As he lets go of the uncertainty, as he lets go of the letter, he casts _decompose_.

“You’re a good man, Caleb Widogast,” he murmurs, as flecks of crumbling paper vanish out over the ocean.


	4. "Sühne"

The sky is vast but it cannot touch her here. The door is shut, and the windows are closed, and the curtains are drawn over her view of the city. The air smells stale, and she smooths back the hair hanging over her face, black locks traveling back to traces of white, to what she’s been told are faint signs of change. Out of view, it all disappears into shadow.

She is alone in the dark but she does not mind.

_Yasha,_

_Thank you for taking the time to hear from me, as you did in many prior moments when you inquired after my well-being. For some the contents of this letter would be a surprise—the depth of feelings left unsaid—but I believe that you will understand. You are like me, and for us it is perhaps easier to write than to speak. Always there are things we wish we could say, and always there are missed opportunities._

_This letter is a bit of a gift, in that sense. A chance to properly come to terms, to say farewell._

_Let me assert once and for all that you are the strongest person I know. Physically, yes, that has never been in doubt, but also in your heart, in your soul. You lost your wife, and you endured. You lost your best friend, and you endured. You lost yourself, and we lost you, and still you endured. Even when you were apart from us, you never stopped trying to come back. With each obstacle you strove only to be better than before, dreaming and believing that one day you would be more than the sum of past mistakes._

_You gave me hope that no one was beyond redemption. I cannot tell you what that meant to me. To know that lightning could break forth even from the darkest of skies._

_Some time ago I returned to Blumenthal, the town where I had been raised. It was not something I wished the others to know about; merely a fleeting whim during a late night of solitude, of reminiscence. The town was much as I remembered it, save for a few new settled plots of land…and of course, the untouched wreckage of my childhood home. I could not bring myself to enter the ruins, but I was able to locate a brace of yellow flowers growing near the outskirts. They are called daffodils, and I have pressed several into this letter for you. I hope that when you see them, they remind you of home as well, and of how far you have come._

_I am grateful to have gotten the chance to know you as you are, Yasha Strongheart. I regret that I will be unable to watch you continue to grow, to see how far you will fly._

_Danke,_

_—Caleb Widogast_

_P.S. Forgive me, but I have some personal business to intrude upon. I am not as in tune with social cues as others, but even a simpleton could see that one of our group is in love with you. I do not think I need to tell you who. Hopefully by now this postscript is obsolete, but…I believe she is intimidated by the weight of your past, by Zuala. If you will allow me one final moment of hypocrisy: I urge you once more not to let your feelings of self-worth get in the way of your happiness. If you are ready for it, I know that it is not too late to find love again_.

The flowers rest on the bed beside her, discarded along with the letter. Magician’s Judge sits in her lap, and she sharpens it slowly, taking care to run her whetstone down every angle of its steel, every fold in the blade. She had used this sword to shave Caleb, once. She was delicate then, too.

In a week or two, once the Nein have had time to rest, Yasha is going to find the other members of the Cerberus Assembly and she is going to kill them.

It is less a plan than a conviction. Trent is gone, but the others remain. They had known about the cruelties inflicted upon his students, all of them. They had known about his tortures, his horrors, his lies and his treacheries, and they had turned away. Endorsed them with silence and a smile, all in the name of…stability? Scientific progress? The greater glory of the Empire?

She does not know, and she does not care. There is nothing that justifies twisting children into monsters.

There is rage in her, and it is cold; it is the rage of the Orphanmaker, the rage that has struck down many who have deserved it and so many who have not. A handful more will not make a difference. Martinet Ludinus Da’leth, and Lady Vess de Rogna, and Headmaster Zivan Margolin, and Oremid Haas if he tries to stop her. Perhaps even Eadwulf and Astrid, wherever they had vanished to after the battle. She will find them and she will kill them.

That was what atonement would look like, for them. That was what atonement would have looked like, for her.

Zuala’s voice echoes in her memory, “ _Don’t let me be a shackle_ ,” and an image emerges, unbidden, of herself holding forth a bouquet of golden petals. She snuffs it out. “It’s too late,” she intones, to the room, to Zuala, to herself. To no one.

Caleb would have understood.


	5. "Wahrheit"

“Fucking Caleb,” she mutters.

_Beau,_

_Part of me always knew it would end this way. Me dead, prostrate after some failed spell or similar moment of magical hubris, and you there, standing over my corpse, shaking your head with crossed arms whilst muttering “I told you so.” I must congratulate you on your victory. One of the great joys of writing posthumously, however, is that the person you are speaking to has no way to reply and thus no recourse against anything you might choose to say. Further, guilt and obligation force them to at least entertain your final words, for fear of missing some important judgment about their character or crucial piece of insight. You are therefore given a platform to oust whatever grievances you may have had with said still-living individual._

_There, you see? Even in death I am pedantic._

_Unfortunately I have no grave insights or judgments to offer you, Beauregard, nothing that you would not already know or be aware of (since there is little you are not aware of), save that I have always admired you. Your intelligence, your devotion to knowledge, your self-sacrificing nature—you may scoff, but it is the truth—were an inspiration to me. Most of all, your perseverance: you never stopped fighting for your beliefs, even when all the world seemed to tell you otherwise. Sometimes those fights were with me, but I am grateful for them. Each time you pushed me, tested me, made me want to be a better version of myself._

_You are my sister, and in another life I would be so fortunate to have grown up alongside you, as family._

_I leave you my second book; not my spellbook but the smaller volume, though of no less personal importance. It contains the story of my life as Caleb Widogast, from my memories of waking after Vergessen to my adventures with the Mighty Nein, and the past which (without you) I would have willingly left buried. Originally I had maintained it as an experiment, to see if—when I tampered with the fabric of reality and time—the record still remained intact. Now the record is yours. There is no one I would rather entrust with my history, to ensure that the truth does not remain forgotten._

_I promise you that I am always beside you, always in your corner, even when it seems that I have gone._

_Dein bruder,_

_—Caleb Widogast_

_P.S. Yasha loves you. Stop being foolish and get on with it._

“Fucking Caleb,” she snarls, and she puts her fist through the wall.

What a smartass. What an unbelievable tool. Like he was going to give her a job to do, a task to complete, _tell my story, Beauregard,_ and dress it up like a present? Like he was going to pretend that his life had mattered, that he hadn’t been just one more body for the imperial meat grinder, one more casualty of war? _Well you didn’t even leave a body behind, asshole. You were vaporized, by your ex-girlfriend, by accident, so how much did your life actually matter? Mister Poison-in-the-Heart-of-the-Empire, what did all that big talk really amount to in the end?_

He’s wrong about Yasha. She’s going to go find her and wave the stupid letter in her face and they’ll laugh about how dumb he is. That’ll show him. No, no, she’s not going to engage with him, with his smug bullshit, she doesn’t need to prove anything to him. She’s just going to burn the letter and that’ll be the end of it. She knows he’ll get a kick out of that but she doesn’t know what else to do, and she doesn’t care, she doesn’t need to care, he’s wrong and he’s full of shit and he’s dead and gone so really who cares, _who cares_ —

“Beau?”

A door opens to reveal a familiar pale face. _Fuck._ She stuffs the letter into her back pocket and wipes a hand across her eyes. How did she end up here?

“Heyyyyy Yasha, what’s up?” _What’s up? Stupid, stupid…_

Yasha blinks for a moment. “Um. Nothing. I’m sorry. It sounded like you were talking to yourself.” She rubs her shoulder. “I wanted to give you some privacy.”

“Wha—no, Yasha, no no no.” She leaps on that, scrambling to correct. “You’re fine, you’re totally fine, you’re in your room. I’m in a hallway.” She looks around and realizes that is, in fact, where she is. “It’s a public hallway,” she finishes, lamely.

Yasha smiles at that and drops her eyes. “Right. I didn’t want to intrude.” She grips her neck and leans on the half-open door. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she lies, and then she pauses for a second. “Well, no. Caleb, you know.” She swallows. There’s no light in the room behind Yasha, and she’s trying very hard not to stare. She feels her gaze swiftly rove over the darkness instead, searching for something, anything to latch onto. Curtains, bedsheets, discarded boots, smooth stone, greatsword…

“Hey,” she says abruptly. “New flowers.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen those before.” She gestures to them on the bed, relieved that she’s found something to talk about. “They look nice. I bet Zuala’ll love ‘em.”

Yasha stands there, looking at her. Then she’s retreating into her room, to her bedside, her back to the door, but only for a few moments, returning with yellow petals—she’s telling the truth, they really do look nice, glowing like the sun against her skin—clutched in her palm.

“Here,” Yasha says, still smiling, softly, and she hands her the flowers.

Her eyes are watering. “Yasha…uh, Yasha, I don’t…” Her voice is so hoarse all of a sudden. Why is it hoarse? “Yasha, thanks, but I—”

They fall into one another. It’s clumsy and sudden and yet somehow not, and she feels like she’s exploding, she’s dared to imagine this so many times, but not like this, _never_ like this. She’s so scared, because it feels like she’s tarnishing something, like she’s dishonoring somebody’s memory by doing this today, doing this at all, and it shouldn’t feel this perfect because that meant he'd been right, and he couldn’t be right, if he was _right_ then why was he _dead_ , and she lets out a wrenching sob, “Fucking, _fucking_ Caleb…”

Yasha’s arms encircle her, and she swears she feels wings around her again.

She has to force herself to break away for a moment. “I’m sorry.” There’s rivers of snot and sweat coursing down her cheeks, and she hates it. “I’m sorry, Yash, I know I’m an ugly crier.”

Yasha looks at her, uncomprehending. “You’re beautiful,” she says, simply.

Beauregard Lionett has no words.


	6. "Klein"

It was unlike Luc not to ask a dozen questions about the week’s adventures, but even he had sensed that something was wrong. He’d let her bundle him off to bed without complaint, and after a long conversation she and Yeza had gone to join him. The three of them had fallen asleep like that, mother and father and son, exhausted, limbs tangled together like bunches of sodden grass.

(She hadn’t actually fallen asleep. She’d stared at the ceiling, eyes following a thin crack in the wood, trying not to think about the look on his face as it vanished.)

In the morning Yeza had offered to make breakfast, and Nugget had immediately _bamf_ -ed into their kitchen (roused by the siren song of sausages), and for a while it seemed like everything could go back to normal. With eggs sizzling on the stovetop, tiny crossbow bolts twanging into walls, a rambunctious boy and blink dog darting from room to room, her husband stealing shy glances at her from over his shoulder, she could almost forget the sight and smell of scattering ashes.

And then Caduceus had knocked on their door.

The sack he’d brought her is open on the bedroom floor, but that’s not where her attention is focused. One of her hands is closed; in the other the letter hangs, lifeless, and she rereads it, as she has all afternoon.

_Veth,_

_Firstly, I hope that you are well. No doubt things are difficult at the moment, and I would like to ensure that you make time for yourself, as you make time for the Nein and your family. Your well-being is of paramount importance to me, especially when I am not around to guarantee it._

_Egotism aside, I wish from the core of my being to thank you. You were there for me at a time when I was utterly alone, as I was for you. Our bond was the first forged in my new life: my life as an adventurer named Caleb Widogast, not as a scarred child broken beyond his limits. I have heard it said that a man can be judged most clearly by the company he keeps. I have rarely held a particularly high opinion of myself, but knowing you has forced me to challenge that estimation._

_You believed in me when no one else did, Veth. Your courage emboldened me, as your wit invigorated me, as your loyalty made me feel safe. So often you overlook these traits in yourself, and yet without them we might never have left that jail cell. But still this fails to grasp the meaning of what I am trying to tell you._

_Veth the Brave, you are a force of nature; you are the finest adventuring companion I could have asked for; you are my hero. In caring for you, for your enormous heart, I learned to care for myself. I grew, under your guidance, and together we dreamed of the greatest wonders._

_Two small-town kids from two poor corners of the Empire, struggling to survive. Look now what we have accomplished. I know you will continue to achieve greater things, even without me._

_As sentimental as we both are, we are also eminently practical, and thus I feel it only fitting that our relationship end on a similar note. To you I leave all of my material possessions, all my remaining belongings, all the coin and spell components and trinkets and magical items I have gathered throughout our travels. Even, perhaps, a few surprises. This wealth is yours to do with as you see fit; you may keep it, sell it, invest it, use it, buy a larger house for you and Yeza or put Luc through schooling when he is old enough. It makes no difference to me. As long as it contributes to your safety and happiness, and to that of your loved ones, I am content._

_It was the greatest triumph of my life, returning you to your family. It has been the greatest honor of my life to be your friend._

_Mit liebe,_

_—Caleb Widogast_

There’s a rapping on the wall near the door—Yeza, poking his head in, looking nervous.

“Honey? Can I come in?”

She’s lost track of time. He and Luc are probably worried sick. She manages to nod; he takes a few hesitant steps toward her and sits beside her on the bed.

“Are you...okay?”

She shrugs. She’s not even sure what okay feels like anymore.

“What did he say?”

“A lot of things,” she hears herself say. “A lot of really wonderful things.” She sags a little. “It doesn’t change the fact that I failed him.”

Yeza gasps—actually gasps, bless him—and she watches him struggle to formulate a response. “Now, now hang on, Veth. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t think that.” He sees she’s not reacting, and he turns her face to his. “I know he wouldn’t want you to think that.”

“Probably not,” she admits. It’s hard to talk around the lump in her throat. “But it doesn’t matter. When I wake up tomorrow, he’ll still be gone.”

The sorrow in his eyes matches hers. He pulls her into a hug and nuzzles her neck, and she feels a little less blank, for a moment.

As he looks around the room, she feels him freeze. “Um…what did Caduceus bring you?”

He kneels down before she can reply, before she can stop him. He peers into the sack, and his curiosity and confusion give way to utter shock. He gapes up at her. “Veth?”

It’s a plethora of shinies. She’d always known that Caleb was careful, had a tendency to hoard items and keep his cards close to his chest, but she’d forgotten just how many cards he’d been holding. Rings, gems, scrolls, gold dust, wands, books, coins set aside for a rainy day. Black pearls, glass beads, his suit of elven chain, a copy of _Fiends of Folklore_ , the first pouch of bat guano she’d ever seen him throw. The wand gifted to him by Calianna, the pink protective stone Fjord had bought him, the amulet he had worn to shield himself from scrying. There is enough here that she might never have to steal again.

Looking at it now, she just feels small.

A tiny bag of buttons sits in a corner of the sack, a jumbled mishmash of sizes and hues. Yeza reaches over and picks one out: it’s painted different colors on either side, olive green transforming into bumblebee stripes, brown and yellow. She knows there’s a darker green further in, with a goofy Tusktooth face drawn on, and a large glittery pastel one, and a black-and-white behemoth, and a rough-carved one in shades of cobalt, and a little blue one that sparkles like sapphires, and even, off to the side, a battered technicolor marvel with nine red dots on its surface.

These are unique. These had been custom-made, collected and set aside, handpainted and handpicked from who-knows-what-parts of Wildemount. All for her. One final present from her best friend in all the world. Veth Brenatto opens her fist and looks down, and as the light shifts, the amber button in her hand seems to catch fire.

Caleb would have hated the cliché, she knows, but she would trade it all—in a heartbeat—just to have him back.


	7. "Für Immer"

Her room is enormous, and it is empty. The wind rustles the ruffles of her canopied bed, and the chill of it catches her bones. She doesn’t normally get cold—especially not in Nicodranas, home to the gentlest and airiest of zephyrs, each a whispered reminder of the beauty of the Coast. Even the evening winds had only ever left her skin flushed, tickling her cheeks and her hair from her perch outside the window. Many nights she’d sat there, legs dangling as she looked out over a city of strangers, daring to dream of adventure and escape and never once turning from the bite of the breeze.

Today she has not left her room, and she cannot glance at a book without feeling cold.

One of the Nein had knocked earlier—Veth or Beau or maybe both, she’d heard a few voices—but she hasn’t opened the door. Her mother had come in for a bit, stroking her and singing her a lullaby, like when she was a child, but it had not eased her. She’d tried to paint something on the wall, something light and cheery to take her mind off things, but it had turned into fire, and ash, and Astrid, the ray shooting from Astrid’s finger, the look of horror on Astrid’s face as she and Eadwulf disappeared into the dark. So that had not helped either.

Even killing Trent hadn’t made her feel any better.

It’s time. She knows what she has to do. She’s hesitant, even now, but she’s been putting it off long enough.

“Traveler?”

He steps out of the air, angular and haughty. His face is still. “You’re ready?”

“I guess so.” She wipes her nose. “I mean, not really, but…I think I need to be.”

He nods and produces the letter from an invisible pocket, from nowhere. He hands it to her without fanfare and turns on his heel to depart.

“Traveler…”

He pauses mid-step, mid-teleport. His pointed ears tense.

“I’m sorry for what I said before. I was just angry. It’s not your fault.”

Artagan turns back to her, and his eyes have softened a touch. “I know, Jester dear. I know. And I’m sorry too.” He sits on the corner of the bed. “I can stay a little longer, if you’d like. If you’d prefer company while you read.”

She nods. She’s been alone for most of the day, and she doesn’t want to be alone for this. She needs to be strong for this. It’s what Caleb deserves. What she’s sure he would have wanted.

She opens the letter.

_Jester,_

_I apologize for the relative brevity of this letter. I have made several attempts to write it, but each time I have grown dissatisfied and thrown out the draft. It seems I am starting to run out of paper, this time for reasons not entirely to do with spellcraft._

_I have never been able to put my opinion of you into words, but as this is my last opportunity to do so I will try my best. You are the funniest person I have ever met, and at times the most frustrating. You have a complexity of spirit that is as frightening as it is endearing. You see the good in so many, even when they do not deserve it, and you strive to love all around you even when they do not return that love. You change everyone you meet, leave every place better than you found it simply by virtue of being alive. You are a whirlwind, you are boundless rain, you are shock and sadness and sunlight all at once, you are everything, you are—_

_You are everything. You deserve everything, and I am sorry I could not give you more._

_Inscribed below is a minor spell, a piece of magic written on a piece of magical paper. It is the only spell I could not leave to Fjord; a bit of selfishness on my part, though I think he will not mind (and likely he will even understand). It is one of the first spells I ever learned as a student at the Soltryce Academy. It belongs to you._

_I am almost out of space, out of ink, so I will say only that you are our home. You were my home, at least for a little while._

_I hope that the contents of this letter answer any questions you may have had._

_Für immer dein,_

_—Caleb Widogast_

The rest is runes, arcane words and symbols spiraling down in patterns to the bottom of the page, and she doesn’t have time to process any of that other stuff; she lunges off the bed, sending Artagan careening to the side with a yelp, and huddles on the floor with her hands clasped between her knees. She stares at the spell, tracing the ciphers, mouthing along with intricate, weaving script. Maybe he’s left her a way to bring him back. Wishful thinking, she knows, and she knows that’s probably not possible with a spell this size, but if it is, _if it is_ —

“Could have warned me, darling,” says the Traveler, brushing himself off, but she’s too busy concentrating to respond.

It’s slow going. She’s not used to this type of magic, this academically precise branch of spellcraft. It’s not instinctual at all. She would have turned her nose up at this, once, but not now, not when it’s from Caleb. Not when it’s Caleb’s last gift for her. Artagan hovers alongside her as she works, offering occasional advice whenever she’s stuck on a line, and eventually the words flow easier. When she closes her eyes, she can almost hear a Zemnian accent encouraging her, guiding her through the steps.

After twenty minutes she thinks she’s got the hang of it. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen, but she’s quivering with anticipation. She imagines the outline of a circle, cocks her head and speaks the phrase once, twice, thrice before clapping her hands together. There’s a spark and a flash of colored light, amber rapidly fading to deepest blue.

A ginger cat rests there, familiar in every sense of the word. He yawns, softly, and turns to regard his new master. Resignation turns to feline delight as he recognizes her, and as he approaches he begins to purr.

“No.” Her fingers are trembling. “No, no, no…”

A memory floats to the surface. _“Caleb, can I keep Frumpkin forever?”_

“ _Für immer dein_ ,” murmurs the Traveler over her shoulder. He wrinkles his nose. “He really did mean it, didn’t he?”

Something is crashing down inside her. Something is falling into place. Tears are swimming in her eyes again—she had thought herself done with tears, she’s spent hours curled up under her sheets, crying into the remnants of her childhood pillows—and Frumpkin is there, nuzzling into her lap, warming her skin with his fur, licking the drops from her face. She clutches Frumpkin to her and she can feel something breaking, and even with all her jokes about healing she knows it’s something she cannot put back together. It is longing and clinging and dreaming and keening all at once, and it is _hers_ and it is _home_ and it is gone.

“Well,” says Artagan, and then it seems he can’t think of anything more to say.

After a while she feels it, under the pain. There’s a quiet there, waiting, a clarity. There’s an understanding. She looks down at her Frumpkin, and he blinks. She looks at him and she sees, now.

_I hope that the contents of this letter answer any questions you may have had._

“A shame,” says the Traveler, almost to himself. “But who are we to question fate?”

Her face shoots up as she rounds on him, and there is murder in what is left of her heart, and then Jester Lavorre notices something odd.

Artagan is not smiling.

“Say that thing you said to me, earlier,” she says suddenly. “That thing that made me mad. Say it again.”

“About putting turtles in the toilets? Not the best time for a prank, I’d assumed, but perhaps the Chateau could use a little cheering up."

“ _Artie_ —"

“Ah. Of course.” He makes an extravagant effort to clear his throat. “Without a body, dear Jester, we cannot bring him back. There is no one else we know who could perform _that kind_ of magic.”

“That kind of magic.” It’s not a question.

"Yes."

"You said that before."

"I did."

He whistles innocently to himself. She could swear he’s about to wink at her.

“All right,” she says slowly, thinking. “All right,” she repeats. “I think I understand.”

Her audience trades glances, fey cat to archfey, and they turn back to her as one. Serious or smiling, together now. It’s hard to tell.

“Are you ready, Jester?”

She feels like she finally knows the answer.


	8. "Unmöglich"

“We’re leaving.”

Jester’s gathered the Nein in Veth’s apartment, several blocks from the Lavish Chateau. Yeza and Luc are out walking Nugget—or rather, corralling Nugget while he teleports from alley to alley—and so they have the place to themselves. Frumpkin is perched atop her head, dozing fitfully between her horns, so Sprinkle has relocated to her handbag. Occasionally a red-furred nose peeks out from under the flap.

Veth is the first to speak. “We are?”

“We’re going to Rosohna. Well, I’m going. Hopefully you guys’ll come with me.”

There’s a chorus of why’s, an outcry of questions, and Jester steels herself. She lets the noise die down before she continues.

“We can’t resurrect Caleb without a body, right?” She looks to Caduceus for confirmation, and he gives a slight nod. He’s curious, as they all are.

“Well then we won’t resurrect him. I’m going to find Essek and I’m going to learn dunamancy. There’s got to be some kind of spell that can turn back time—that’s what Caleb wanted to do, right?—and I’m going to learn it. Or Essek will, and he’ll cast it. Either way.”

“Jess, that’s…that’s definitely inspired,” says Beauregard, looking at her like she’s lost her marbles. “But why would Essek do that? Assuming it’s even possible.”

“Essek owes us like a million favors. And he’s the only one in the Dynasty willing to mess with the rules of dunamancy, and he wouldn’t want Caleb dead either. He’ll listen to us.”

“And if Essek can’t?” Fjord now, hollow-sounding. “If the magic fails, if he’s not strong enough?”

She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Then we go to what’s left of the Cerberus Assembly. They’ve been experimenting with dunamancy too. We go to Oremid Haas or Vess, or even Ludinus. And we do whatever it takes to get Caleb back.”

“Are you saying we…threaten them?” Yasha’s voice is a soft rumble, the barest hint of distant thunder. Beau reaches across to take her hand; she flinches at her touch, then seems to come back to herself. “Do you think that would work?”

Jester swallows. “Maybe. I dunno. They’re definitely not invincible, though.” She thinks back to the dinner at Ikithon’s manor. “Trent liked to pretend he knew everything. He said that he’d, like, planned out Caleb’s whole life, so that whether Caleb killed him or spared him, it was something he’d foreseen. He sure didn’t plan for me cutting off his head.”

She’s talking faster now, and bigger than she feels, but she knows she can’t turn back. “I think we just approach one of them and lay out our demands. Show them we won’t take no for an answer. You know?”

Fjord rubs his temples. “Right. Brilliant plan. We stroll right into Rexxentrum, right into the heart of the Cerberus Assembly, after murdering one of their top mages, and we go snatch another. They’d kill us on sight.”

“I’m not saying we _kidnap_ anyone. We go and we make a deal.” She chews at her lip, deliberating. “There’s got to be some job or artifact or something one of them wants. They’re all super ambitious. Besides, they might do it just to see if it could be done.”

He snorts. “It’d be the hag all over again, in other words.”

“Yeah, well, that went great. Thanks to me.” She’s trying to stay calm, but days’ worth of anger is bubbling to the surface. “Worst case scenario, you don’t think we can take ‘em?”

He gestures to the kitchen at large, to the six of them in a circle, to the one empty chair. “Clearly we can’t.”

She erupts. “What the hell is wrong with you? We can undo it, fix it so that it never happened! We can save him! How can you not want to do this?”

“Because there’s nothing to do, Jester.” It’s muted, but there’s something in his voice, and she’s shocked—Fjord feels _sorry_ for her.

“I took a look through Caleb’s spellbook, and there’s a reason he never tried this stuff: it’s impossible. The power it would take, the training, the scale…” His eyes are vacant, with dark bags beneath them. “We’re talking about breaking boundaries that haven’t even been discovered yet.”

“But Essek—"

“If Essek tried it the Dynasty would snatch him up in a second. And if the Assembly didn’t kill us, and _if_ they were able to figure it out, we’d probably end up rewriting history. We’d be lucky not to start another Calamity.” He leans forward in his chair, pitying.

“It’s over, Jester. It was a nice thought, but he’s gone. We lost.” He folds his hands together. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

There’s a beat of finality, of silence, and Caduceus bows his head. No one seems to know what to say.

“No.”

Fjord starts. “What?”

“I said no. I’m going, with or without you. Essek first, then the Assembly. This is something I have to do.” She hears herself and she’s amazed how certain she sounds, how certain she feels. She hasn’t been this sure about anything since TravelerCon.

“Jester, that’s…” He’s almost frantic. “You can’t. Not alone. It’s too dangerous.”

“So what, Fjord?” There was a time she would have appreciated the concern, but she doesn’t need protection, doesn’t need permission. Caleb had always understood that better than anyone. “They could ask to steal another beacon and I’d do it. I don’t care if we have to yank him out of the past or kill baby Trent or whatever. We’re not leaving Caleb behind. _I’m_ not.” Frumpkin’s awake now, jarred from sleep by the force of her words, and he lets out a yowl to punctuate her speech.

She surveys the room. “Are you with me or not?”

“Yes.” Veth the Brave, ace detective, coming to the rescue without a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, I’m with you. All the way.” She smiles, sad and fierce and joyful all together. “Whatever it takes.”

“We’re in too.” Yasha next. She looks over at Beau and she’s shy like most times, but there’s a spark there too. It’s fiery. It’s something Jester hasn’t seen before. “Right?”

Jester realizes that the two of them are still holding hands.

“Hell yeah.” Beau grins through red-rimmed eyes and cracks her neck. “Fucker thinks he can die on us without me beating his ass, he’s got another thing coming.”

Jester smiles. “Beau…”

“Don’t sweat it,” she interrupts. “It’s a little crazy, but I like it. I’ll talk to the Cobalt Soul about approaching the Assembly.”

Caduceus clears his throat. “Strictly speaking, the Raven Queen frowns on this sort of magic. Destiny is meant to be absolute, unchangeable. If it was his time, it was his time, and she would not want that rest disturbed.”

Veth is on her feet, teeth bared, half-goblin again, but Jester holds up a hand. She knows him better than that. “And the Wildmother?”

He pauses for a bit, as if contemplating, pretending to recall the doctrine of his goddess one line at a time. “Doesn’t seem to have much of an opinion on time travel. So why not?” He chuckles. “Let’s break some rules.”

One last holdout. “Fjord?”

He’s staring at the floor. “I don’t know, Jester.” It’s like he’s not even talking to her, like he’s locked within himself. “I don’t know. I just don’t think…”

And she realizes that it’s not Caleb he’s given up on, not Essek or the Cerberus Assembly or the Matron of Ravens he’s terrified of, it’s _himself_ , it always was—

Two steps and she’s looking him in the face. “He’s not gone, Fjord. We haven’t lost yet. And maybe you don’t think we can do it, you don’t believe in yourself anymore, but that’s okay. Because Caleb believes in us. And that’s enough for me.”

She takes his hands. “All we can do is try, right?”

He looks back at her, and he can’t seem to find the words. Then he closes his eyes, and there’s a rattling intake of breath, and she’s reminded of resurrection, of life rushing back into him on the deck of a stormy ship. His gaze comes up, and he’s smiling ruefully.

“You people are insane, you know that?”

Fjord stands and straightens and he looks like a Captain again. “Alright. I guess I'm in too. After everything we’ve been through together, the Mighty Nein…what’s one more lunatic adventure?” Dwueth’var apparates into his hand with a flourish, gleaming like starlight, like ice on the surface of the ocean, finally starting to thaw.

“Let’s go get him.”

Veth whoops, and Yasha and Beau are standing and cheering too, and Fjord is blushing and they’re all pressing in for a hug. Even Caduceus is there, lanky arms curving to encircle them, and Fjord is protesting now as he awkwardly bends the sword out of the way, and Jester’s crying again but she’s laughing, they’re all laughing and she’s so excited and so nervous and so _ready_ and she doesn’t care.

They have a mission again. They have a purpose, and come hell or high water they’re going to see it through. Because at the end of the day, it is simply what they do. Who they are. Because they are the Mighty Nein, and they would rather be wrong together a thousand times than right apart.

Because when one of them is in need, there is nothing living or dead in all the world, all the planes of existence, that can hope to stand in their way.

One way or another, Caleb Widogast is coming home.


	9. "Zuhause"

In the end, it takes less than six weeks.

It’s Jester who unites the Nein, who guides them, who sets them on the path. It’s Jester who approaches Essek, who convinces him to defy the laws of the Dynasty. It’s Jester who refuses to let Caleb down, no matter what. Who is willing to do whatever it takes to save him.

It’s Veth who breaks into an Assembly laboratory, who pilfers armfuls of residuum and diamonds and treated mithral, who nabs every note and experiment and piece of dunamantic knowledge she can find that’s not nailed down. It’s Veth who walks out whistling.

It’s Beau who pores over everything the Cobalt Reserve has on dunamancy, frenzied days and sleepless nights of research and legwork and theory accumulating into one immense ritual, one proposal. It’s Beau who slams her work down in front of the Assembly and dares them to prove her wrong.

It’s Yasha who leans across the table, looking directly into the eyes of the strongest mage in the Empire, before running her finger along the edge of Magician’s Judge. It’s Yasha who doesn’t need to do anything else.

It’s Caduceus who knows exactly when to speak and when to stay silent, who keeps the peace between the Assembly and Essek and the rest, who not only asks for aid from his goddess but _receives_ it. Who inspires each of the Nein in turn with a nod and a word and a cup of tea when they need him most.

It’s Fjord who agrees to act as the conduit, who says the words, who draws the lines and unleashes his magic and pours everything he has into the spell and prays, _prays_ that it will work.

* * *

Master Trent Ikithon weaves his fingers together, in what will be his final act of treachery, and the spell reflects. The ray rebounds towards the nearest target. In the end, it takes less than six seconds.

The ghost of the smile of a purple tiefling, the cry of a raven sounding in the distance, and Caleb Widogast is gone.

There’s a _whoosh_ ing noise, a tugging sensation on the nape of his coat, and suddenly he’s weightless, floating through space, violet-gray light all around him in an undulating tunnel, dragged backwards and flailing until he’s deposited not ungently on what appear to be marble tiles.

In the corner sits Frumpkin, licking his paws. As he meets Caleb’s eye he meows, unconcerned, and saunters up to him without a care in the world.

“Ah. Hello.” Caleb scritches his cat around the ears, then looks up at the rest of the Mighty Nein. “Did we win?”

He looks to Fjord, sitting in a circle of runes, breathing an exhausted sigh of relief. To Caduceus and Yasha, pleased and proud. To Beauregard, who looks like she wants to punch him and hug him all at once. To Veth, who’s bouncing up and down on her heels. To Jester, beaming through tears.

Caleb scratches his head. “Was there something I missed?”

* * *

It’s not yet dawn when he emerges from the Lavish Chateau, the buildings and lamps still blanketed in sheets of gray and morning mist. A few birds (doves, maybe?) take off from the ground as he exits, wheeling up into the sky in pairs. He shoves his hands into his pockets—more out of habit than from any real cold or discomfort—and sets off down the street.

He stops in his tracks. Jester is sitting cross-legged on a bench, not too far from the Chateau, humming to herself.

Caleb looks at her and his heart is full and he can do nothing but take a few stumbling steps. He needs to thank her. He needs to say a lot of things.

He settles for one.

“Jester?”

“Caleb!” Delight bursts from her dimples, and a reluctant pang of joy sounds in his chest. “Couldn’t wait for breakfast, huh?”

He approaches. “To be honest, I am trying to stay out of the way.” He makes for a shrug, slightly sheepish.

Her eyebrows scrunch together. “Out of the way of what?”

“Well, everyone has been very open with their affections, and I am…a little unused to it.” His shoulder aches again, and he winces. “Of course, the bruises do not help.”

Jester grins. “Beau’ll calm down eventually. She was worried about you.”

“It is somewhat irritating, being blamed for something that has not happened to you yet.” He frowns. “Although I suppose now it is something that has no longer happened? Or that will not happen. It is a touch befuddling.”

He realizes that she’s still looking directly at him, still grinning. “Fjord was truly impressive, no?” he says, rather hurriedly. “Arcane and divine magic, working in tandem. With a bit of outside help, of course.” He cannot help but chuckle. “I am a little jealous he was able to pull it off, and yet I find I am not surprised.”

“I think he was surprised enough for all of us,” she says. He’s not really sure how to reply to that and so he looks down at the ground, picking guiltily at a loose thread in his coat. He hopes she has not noticed how stiff he feels.

He is struggling not to think about last night’s dinner. Right beforehand—it was in the hallway, he had just finished washing up and was heading downstairs—Yasha had cornered him and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. “Go talk to her,” she’d said, glowering at him. “You _need_ to talk to her.”

“Jester,” he says now. She cocks her head, hearing the gravity in his voice.

“Thank you,” he says. “Veth and Fjord told me, you were the one with the idea. The one who pushed for all of this, brought everyone together.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I owe you my life.”

“It wasn’t just my idea,” she says, shaking her head. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Jester, to tamper with dunamancy, with time? To approach some of the most dangerous mages of the Continent and bargain for their aid? To risk your lives?” He is trying not to stammer; she deserves to hear this properly. “Not to mention the consequences still to come, the cost of altering another’s destiny. It was not an easy choice.”

“You would have done it for me, Caleb,” she says, plainly. “It was no choice at all.”

For a moment he has trouble finishing. Then: “Even so. If there is anything you should desire of me, you need only ask. I am at your disposal.”

“Hm.” The corner of her mouth curls upward. “Good to know.”

He nods, doing his best to avoid eye contact, and casts his gaze over the rest of the block. Deserted except for them. Time to be on his way, perhaps.

“I read your letter, by the way.”

He blinks. “My what?”

“Your letter. The one you gave Caduceus, the one you left for me.”

“ _Oh_.” He nearly runs into the bench. “You were not…I mean, I did not…I am sorry.” Here is an eventuality he could not have planned for: a posthumous letter that was no longer posthumous. “That is, I wrote it some time ago, and I do not remember precisely what it said.”

She does him the dignity of ignoring the lie. “You said you hoped the letter would answer any questions I had.”

He hates himself for asking, but he doesn’t know what else to say. “And…did it?”

She’s quiet for a long time before responding. “You left me Frumpkin. You left me a piece of you. And you said I was everything, that I deserved everything. You said it _twice. Für immer_ , Caleb.” She stands, and her words are tumbling forth in waves now. “You said that I was frustrating, and frightening, and endearing, and, and that I see the good even in people who don’t deserve it, and you said that I was home, like I did to you, you said _so much_ , and you think I am amazing and charming and beautiful and—"

“That was not in the letter, Jester.” He seizes onto that, clinging to it like a drowning man. He has to stop her, before she says something she will regret.

“But you do,” she says, triumphantly, and he knows his face is bright red.

“Caleb,” she says, almost at a whisper, and she takes a step towards him. There is something tight in his chest. “Are you secretly in love with me?”

“I…” His breath is coming faster now.

“I need you to tell me, Caleb.”

“Jester, I do not—”

“You think you owe me, so just tell me the truth. You said you were at my disposal, right?”

“ _Ja. Ja_ , I did, but—”

“You _said_ , if I desired anything of you—”

“ _Jester_ ,” he finally manages to get out, and she stops. She waits, motionless. “Jester,” he says again, and he knows that she is watching him grapple with the weight of loving her, with the weight of the most selfish thing he could ever inflict upon her.

“It would not be good for you, Jester.” There is the truth, ugly and inconvenient as it is. “Not for you, not for anyone. You deserve…you deserve so much, and I am not… It would be nothing but a burden.”

“A burden,” she repeats, and there is fury and wonder in her eyes. “What about what you deserve, Caleb?” Her arms are crossed now. “Astrid and Eadwulf, they get to be forgiven, but you don’t? Because of Trent, because of the things that happened to you, you don’t get to be happy? _Ev-er_?” Her last word comes out indignant, hissing, and the strength of the rebuke sends him a step back.

“I…I do not think so. Not how you mean.”

She’s dumbfounded, and then her gaze narrows. “Well that’s just shitty, Caleb,” she declares. Her tail is flicking behind her. “Because you’re smart, and funny, and powerful, and kind, and you have a huge heart. And you love so, _so_ much. It’s pretty shitty not to share that with anybody else.”

He looks down, helpless. “Jester, this is not up for debate. I am still too weak a man, too broken. Too far gone. Even with Trent dead…” His voice catches. “I am trying to piece myself back together, and to place that on someone else…I cannot. Not on you. It is impossible.”

Her face falls. “Right,” she says, and she sits.

His hand wavers, nearing the edge of the bench, and then he lets it go. The space between them is dull, now, it is unfilled, and he knows that he is a fool. “I am sorry if that is not what you were expecting.”

Jester snorts. “No, I definitely expected it. I just figured maybe I could change your mind.” She lets out an exaggerated, over-dramatic sigh, and waves her hand. “But I guess even death couldn’t, so…”

“Technically I never died,” he reminds her, and then he falls silent. Around them Nicodranas sleeps. As he turns away, he notes the number of windows along the thoroughfare, the spaces where he imagines families starting to wake, and because he can do nothing else he begins to count, _eins, zwei, drei, vier_ —

“Impossible,” Jester muses aloud. The word hangs in the air.

“What?” He can tell she is thinking. Her fingers are fidgeting in her lap. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing.” She hoists herself up and circles the bench towards him, hands laced behind her back. Her eyes are sparkling; he can see every crease and facet in her smile. “Just…you know, impossible isn’t, like, something that really matters to us.”

She kisses him on the cheek and tweaks his nose and walks away, tail dancing mischievously in the breeze.

Jester’s gone before his ears have stopped ringing. He is alone in the street, mind struck utterly, ludicrously blank, if only for a moment. Alone, though he does not have to be.

It all comes rushing back to him then, his fears and his doubts and his past and—there, the light of daybreak, cresting faintly over the rooftops of Nicodranas. His hand comes to rest on his cheek, on the spot, and it glows. It _burns_.

“Impossible,” he murmurs again, and he follows her inside.

Caleb Widogast does not shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize for anyone fluent in Germa—er, Zemnian, because I am not. Totally just used Google Translate.
> 
> This was both very difficult and a lot of fun to write. This was one of those things where you’re lying in bed late at night and you get the idea and it won’t leave your head, and you sit down to get it all out on the page and you look up and a whole day’s gone by. It’s also my first fic on this site, so hopefully I was able to do justice to the concept.
> 
> Something written from Caleb to Yasha, that I would like to echo, is “Hopefully by now this postscript is obsolete.” My greatest hope for this story is that it becomes obsolete. That someday it has been eclipsed by canon, that its events have been made irrelevant, that its characters are happy and healthy and where they feel they belong.
> 
> Thank you very much for waiting, for commenting, and (most of all) for reading.


End file.
